I
relax a bit sullen, to ponder grandma, where hams befriend memories: this
turkey for junior, this stuffing for mother, this teleprompter for aunty: our
pictures as if alive, our stepfather’s discomfort, at oldies and blues: our
black home, our greased sayings, our clichés: at a small puppy, at drug
addictions, those trips to our rooms: this funny odor, those stars on
television, at animated responses: our loud voices, at granny’s sophistication,
while under-breath cursing granny’s soul: those Thieves in The Temple, our dark embarrassments, our challenges to remain Black: this deep rift, our paper bag
tests, as children of granny’s legacy.
It felt
goodness, this fair damsel, that
light complexion: as felt arrival, or tragic midnights, as felt that one order:
to outwit Naïve, to grin with venom, to continue sex-grunts: while holding
back, sentenced by years, to flee but captured: this bleeding runt, those nostalgic
feelings, or paranoid as under surveillance—this inner city, this country cop,
or days to running from terrors: our blood as green, our souls as cyan, where
mother appears after years those tombs: to destroy innocence, to overwhelm
healings, while some are deeply insync: this russet purple, those times to your
name, while gunning through traffic: at straw and mortar, sentenced as slaves,
where our God is almighty: this mackle imprint, those earth imprints, this
silent, noble, distrusting imprint: as hurt several times, to land upon
something fitting, while at needs to protect our dynasties: as chewing grout,
our spidery eggs, to realize this likeness to beasts—our shoe prints, this
invisible phantom, our palms held by unsighted figures: (to die rapidly, as if
you for me, or nothing this walk upon cobble straw: our bricks at mercy, our
cities at pyramids, or this soul running into father’s mirror: those long
marigolds, this intimate humming life, where lutes sung by disaster: our papers
moistened, our weeds claiming imprints, or holograms in father’s closet: such
remaining children, to outlive death, while Love needs a baby: this future
athlete, those rabid concerns, to realize damaged genetics: but life was good,
those phenotypes, those features—as one with high cheek bones, a strong chin,
and hair damn near his groin: our losses, Love, this woman a pistol, as this
bad flame Black woman: to fill his guts, to glance when life happens, to
resolve in picture perfect strengthism): our blurry magnificence, our angular
women, to get so close it hurts to burp: our dreams shunning reality, our minds
stripped of respects, if but to open feeling Jewish rage: this perfect mistake,
our union in terrors, our families stressed to destroy—this jasper flower, this
jasmine flower, or those saffron souls dealing with self-hatred: to long and
cuss, to fuss and fight, or terrified that death is inching closer.
I
shift mentally, this sky-swamp, our religious eyes: to pagan something deep, to
cross eternal wires, to excuse this messy kitchen: our cooking castles, this
frigid fire, as vacillating through temperatures: those flecks of damages, this
wreck of insights, those specks of delusions: such lux for illumination, such
brass instruments, at winds and wings welted to existence: this offbeat
feeling, this sudden realization, as too concerned with names: those courtroom
trombones, this inner cell trumpet, those arcs zeroed into this continuum: at
steel with feelings, at feelings with imbalance, to need something so uncultured
our bizarre cravings are satiated: as but a young maniac, for Love was so
gorgeous, as mentioned her mind in previous prose: at afield thoughts, or
afield promises, while wandering inner domains: our amiss funny-bone, this
funny life, at something so funny it devastates: to frequent soon, this
mysterious legacy, while many suffer disappointment: this fleet of goats, this
freshet of rain, this brook to hillsides—to gallop bravery, to barrel into
mortar, this curdling fane!
